In the depths of the church…687Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRv0TQfOeMW
Few volunteers were present in the areas where wails were most intense, relying on doctors to treat the more severely wounded. Their scalpels cut into flesh, and their saws crushed through bones of blackened limbs as their subordinates tried to keep up with the records, which were stacked into towers reaching three paces high. Nurses recorded their observations and supplied the necessary equipment to their colleagues, restraining patients in shock and agony who had to undergo surgery without any anaesthesia or morphine. Many did not survive the ordeal. After moving deeper into the church, behind the altar where priests typically led prayers, the boys entered the chambers beneath the ruins of a bell tower, where beds and incense that once belonged to priests had been desecrated by devils in their steel birds and firebombs, along with the victims they left behind. The spire had been destroyed, and as noon approached, the sun rose over the roof's skeletal remains, replacing the morning air. Yet it still felt colder than usual for early winter. Meanwhile, a resting surgeon, who appeared to have just come from the warmest summer, wiped the grease and sweat that had condensed on his forehead with his bloodied hands.
There was a stench of death emanating from him whose fingernails had been blackened by dust, dirt, ash, and blood, dashed with a smidge of medicinal paste. He sat down on a crate and took a sip of water from a basin that had to be shared among his compatriots, which seemed to have refreshed his mind when he replied to the two boys who approached him about their search. “Sorry, kid, but we’re none too sure whether o’not that’s her, to tell ya the truth. We’ve hundreds, if not thousands, some whose names I’ve heard, but their faces—unrecognisable.” The helpful surgeon shook his head and released a sigh, his shoulders slouching out of guilt that he could not help them any more. “We were able to identify her because of the good man who brought her here.” Pointing down an aisle, the depressed doctor directed them towards the chamber where the waft of sickness felt strongest.
Arminius stared at the dimly lit room with a sense of dread washing over him, but not even he could imagine what awaited him there, holding onto Julien, who gestured to him that they should get going before taking up any more of the surgeon’s precious time.
“Hey, kid, ain’t your mother Setsuki?” The doctor added that he had just figured out who Arminius was from his slightly Eastern features, but when he turned around, he seemed less bothered by her name and her fate. “You’d be lucky to catch her on her way…” Pausing, the kind doctor knew that some words were better left unsaid, especially to a child, and pretending he had forgotten what he was going to say, he stood up and returned to work.
Even though they may not have been the closest of mothers and sons, he was not so heartless as to have not despaired, but his hope remained over the chance that his sister might still be alive. Arminius hurried, yanking Julien, who tried to slow him down, along with him into the murky chamber, clawing his way through the viscous air, which had stagnated from disease and rot. Their eyes watered, and their vision became a blur, but it seemed like that luck had fallen on his side when Arminius spotted a body lying on the bed in the corner of the room whose shape had a pinch of familiarity. As he rushed over, his smile fell apart, and he slowed, only realising that the chamber they had entered was reserved for those whose injuries were final.
It was the resting place of the dying who stubbornly clung on, and among the dozens in the room, there was a girl wrapped in a cocoon of bandages, her skin sometimes yellow and sometimes pink from the pus mashed into her flesh, which had been flayed with fire. Arminius approached her and dropped to his knees, feeling weaker every minute, scarred by reality, as Julien stood aside and let him grieve. Feeling a brotherly presence beside her, she turned her remaining eye towards him and saw his tears flowing down his face. Even if she wanted to cry with him like they used to, she could not, nor could she say his name with her charred lungs. As Arminius tried to suppress his tears, he wept helplessly while holding onto Elise’s arm, which was unresponsive. However, within his sadness, a frightening storm brewed that shook the very heavens responsible for all this madness.
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